Chapter Seven

Though I've become accustomed to Simon's habit of occasionally disappearing without a warning or apology, I always found it upsetting. So I don't understand why fact that he took proper leave of me this time – and with none of his usual…well, his usual until the end – makes me feel worse than I would have if he'd just vanished in his usual way. Perhaps the haze of dread that's been hanging over me since last night (was it only that recently?), having been briefly suspended, is just coming back with a vengeance.

Feeling the need to do something, anything, that will make me feel useful and provide some distraction until Cecil comes, I go back to the library to shelve books. It's a task that requires concentration but not much actual thought, which is ideal for my purposes. Playing librarian lets me spend the interval between Simon's departure and Cecil's arrival in a comfortable trance.

My watch reads a quarter past eight by the time Cecil startles me back into reality by ringing the front-door bell. I would know it was Cecil even if I weren't expecting him – he has a habit of pounding the switch out front several times in rapid succession, holding it down for about ten seconds, then pounding it again, over and over until someone answers the door for him. This distinctive cacophony wreaks havoc on my ears as I make my way to the vestibule.

Jenny greets me with an eek when I open the door. Cecil tips his hat to me with one hand and hold's Jenny's tail in the other to prevent her from jumping off his shoulder and running to the stairs. He comes through the door at my urging.

"Evenin', Miz Emma. Where's da boss?"

"Out doing the rounds," I answer as I close the door.

Cecil is obviously disappointed, but he knows and grudgingly accepts his employer's habits. And, unlike a few of the other agents, he has no problem with reporting to me instead. "Well, when 'e gets back, ya can tell 'im – if y'please, Miz Emma – that Crombie ain't been to da Cathedral, nor da police station, nor 'is dad's place neither."

"That's good news." I think it is, although I find it more puzzling than reassuring. "What has he been up to instead?"

Cecil's answering shrug upsets Jenny, who chatters indignantly as she struggles to keep her perch. "Bin goin' 'round to pawnshops, mostly, an' a few fences. Dunno what for," he says, anticipating my next question.

I don't know what to make of that either, but I hope Simon will. "That's fine. Anything else of interest?"

"Not really. We're still keepin' an eye on Crombie – in shifts, like." He frowns for a moment. "'Tween you an' me, Miz Emma, I dun like it. Spyin' on Crombie, dat is. 'E may 'ave it in for da boss, but 'e ain't a criminal." Cecil looks at me doubtfully. "Is 'e?"

Jenny, sensing something amiss, looks from Cecil to me. "Ook?"

"No, Simon doesn't suspect Crombie of anything – but he has his reasons," I say, half-trying to convince myself as well as Cecil. "He always does, even if he doesn't always tell us what they are."

Cecil frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets. "I know, 's always dat way with da boss. But dis is a bit dodgy – it ain't like 'im."

I share Cecil's discomfort: though I know why Simon is having Crombie followed – and I admit his reasons are valid ones – I also know that even my partner's rather flexible ethics don't usually accommodate something like this. Not usually.

"I don't like it either," I confess. "This isn't a permanent arrangement, though. After this case I don't think he'll be doing it again." I hope not, because I won't be around to make sure. For the first time it occurs to me that I will be leaving behind not only Simon, but Cecil and Pete and Nell and all the other agents, whom I have come to consider as friends, or at least something close to friends. I quash the cold, wrenching sensation that rises as if to meet the thought.

My reassurances, though they sound doubtful and half-hearted to my own ears, seem to convince Cecil that all will be well. His troubled expression transforms into a smile. "Oh. Dat's all right den, I s'pose."

Cecil accepts two shillings for his services instead of his usual one, but he declines my invitation to supper. While he is fine with accepting extra wages or engaging in (to use his term) "dodgy" entrepreneurial activities or even a bit of extortion, he will not accept charity. In spite of this, and his insistence that he can take care of himself perfectly well, my concern for him always motivates me to offer a little extra help. At least he's more polite about refusing it than Simon is. Cecil promises to report back late tomorrow morning with any news.

With his departure I feel very much alone once more. I wish I knew when to expect Simon back: I can't even make a rough estimate, since any number of factors could affect how long he spends on his incognito outing. He might even come back late just to spite me.

I clench my teeth as boiling, acid fury sweeps over and through me, momentarily darkening my vision. "Damnit, Simon!" Since there's no breakable object close at hand, I settle for slamming my fist against the wall beside the door. How could you still do this to me, after everything we've been through, when I'm about to leave, how could you…

But he doesn't know I'm leaving, does he?

My right hand, clenched tight against the wall, is smarting. For a moment I can't figure out how my hand got where it is or why it hurts. Oh. Right. I hit the wall. With that the last of my anger is driven out by embarrassment. I pull back my hand, spread my fingers and massage it with my other hand. The resulting pain tells me that I'll probably have a bruise come tomorrow. Well, that's what I get for making senseless attacks on the masonry.

I startle at the faint sound of footsteps coming from the catacombs. It takes me longer than it should to realize that Simon has returned earlier than I anticipated. Alarms go off in my head as I think that he may have heard my oath of a minute ago. Memory tells me I did not raise my voice enough to be heard in the catacombs – even Simon's acute sense of hearing could not have picked it up – but even so I am afraid that he heard.

When Simon emerges from the catacombs I am there to meet him at the top of the stairs. He's still wearing the carpenter's clothes, but he has removed and scrubbed away the last traces of the mask, and he has also removed the cosmetics (and the little bandage) from his hands. The shapeless cap and gray wig are nowhere in evidence. Nor is there any trace of the friendly mood he was in when he departed.

"Has Cecil been here yet?" he asks.

"Good evening to you too," I say dryly. "You just missed him." I feel some distant surprise at my sounding so calm in the aftermath of the explosion.

"What did he say?"

I repeat Cecil's message in a less colourful version of the King's tongue. "He's obviously waiting for some stolen items to turn up."

Simon frowns in contemplation and does his geste en pense. "It can't be anything from the Verinders'. It's too early for that."

"Or for anything from the Museum Obscura, and I doubt those things would find their way to a pawnshop or a common fence in any case," I point out. "He hasn't been to the Cathedral or the Eismores' today." Something occurs to me. "Simon, do you know if he actually spoke to Miss Romanelli, or could he have been at the Adelphi for some other reason?"

Simon looks as close to surprised as I've ever seen him. "No, I don't know. You have a point there."

"Wait, could you repeat that?" I cup a hand to my ear. "I couldn't have heard it correctly."

"Perhaps you should have your ears checked, then. And you should also consider this a lesson about the perils of jumping to conclusions."

I glare at him. "'I' should take it as a lesson? I hope I do need my ears checked."

"No, never mind, your hearing is fine after all," he says dismissively. "I shall have to see if Mr. Crombie is investigating something else. Until I am sure, however, I will continue keeping an eye on him."

"Speaking of that, did you find whatever it was you were looking for while you were out?"

The frown on Simon's face is barely perceptible. "Yes and no."

I wait a moment for him to elaborate. When he doesn't, I cross my arms and purse my lips. "What exactly were you looking for?" Not that you'll tell me….

"I was collecting information on Helena Romanelli's activities during her stay in Partington," he says, surprising me with an immediate and clear answer. "Had I known about her arrival here things would have been much simpler, but we were out at the time, and in any case things have been…."

"Wait," I interrupt, holding up my hands. "Is she a suspect?"

For a moment there is weariness, frustration and maybe even helplessness in Simon's expression. "She's the closest thing I have to one at the moment. Even if she isn't involved in this affair, chances are good that she's involved in some other unpleasant business."

I sigh. "Simon, we have a cornucopia of problems on our hands at the moment. Don't start worrying about the ones that haven't even materialized yet."

Simon peers at me. "I call it being reasonably cautious, Miss Bishop." No matter how little time or energy he may have, it's always enough for one more argument.

"You're assuming the worst, and beyond reason."

"I make a habit of assuming the worst because in my experience it almost always happens," he explains, as another might jest that it always rains when one forgets one's umbrella. "Speaking of that, I should retire soon so as to be well-rested for the next catastrophe."

"Ah." I try to keep my smile from being a smug one. "So that's why you came back early? As per my suggestion?"

Simon does not keep the smugness out of his expression. "Of course not. If I start following your advice you'll expect me to do it all the time."

"That's a relief: if you did start listening to me it would probably violate some fundamental law of physics." Opting to quit while I'm ahead and escape before he can get the last word in, I turn to head up the stairs into the inner Residence. "Good night, Simon."

Simon's faint smile is half amusement and half something I can't put my finger on. "Good night," he says. Instead of going downstairs as I go upstairs, he stands watching me for a moment: it's one of those looks that has an almost physical substance to it. When I take a questioning look at Simon, he turns away and walks down the steps, shaking his head absently as if throwing away some idle consideration.

Feeling puzzled and suddenly very tired, I think that I might do well to go to bed early myself.

I'm beginning to nod off when the hansom cab jumps and rocks as the wheels hit a rut in the cobblestones – a rude but much-needed awakening. To prevent myself falling asleep again after the shock has passed, I rub my right hand, which, while not bruised from last night's encounter with the wall, is sore to the touch. The motion and the dull pain will keep me awake, if not exactly alert.

Today, like yesterday, started out rather badly. For the second night in a row I did not sleep much or well. I took it as a given that Simon would notice and incorporate it into the general pattern of my odd behaviour since yesterday. I also took it as a given that he would not ask me if something was wrong, because (as he once told me) such questions are usually pointless niceties, and he will only ask them if he honestly cares about what the answer will be. He added that, in my case, he expected me to inform him that something was amiss instead of waiting for him to ask about it.

Why is it that the one time I depended upon this bit of eccentricity, instead of being vexed by it, Simon had to go against his character and express his concern? He did it in a roundabout, disingenuous sort of way, but his object was unmistakable. I chose to be reticent and evasive, the way he would have been had our positions been reversed. Fortunately he did not press the matter, as I would have done.

The hansom pulls to the side of the road and stops outside an elegant brick house on the corner – my destination. I push my concerns to the back of my mind (which has become very cluttered of late) and focus on the problem at hand. In my view, Simon's scheme will depend upon luck as much as anything else. Simon, on the other hand, has absolute confidence in his plan and (implicitly) upon my ability to carry it out. As a general rule, I've found, those of his plans that seem most outrageous tend to be his most successful. Even so I have my reservations: I'll do what he asks, but I'll do it with a prayer for good luck.

I get out of the cab and pay the driver. As he leaves I approach the front steps of the house, stop to gather my courage and make the aforementioned prayer under my breath. I start thinking about all the ways this could go wrong. I'm not really afraid to face Crombie himself, because the worst he can do is rant me out of his house or threaten to summon the police. What makes me anxious is the prospect of disappointing Simon.

But I have to go in before I can be kicked out, and I have to be kicked out before I can disappoint my partner. So I tell myself what I told him last night – there's no point in worrying about problems that haven't materialized yet.

Trying very hard to keep that in mind, I ring the doorbell and wait a short eternity for someone to answer.

My first impressions upon entering Fenton Crombie's study are of dimness, clutter, and a substantial olfactory monument to hundreds of pipes' worth of shag tobacco. The maid who showed me in shuts the door behind me, leaving me in the room with piles of books and papers, curios, assorted pieces of machinery and Fenton Crombie himself.

He stands in front of the wide window in the opposite wall, which faces out onto the back garden and lets in the morning sunlight. Because of this I can see him only in silhouette: he is thin and wiry, a bit below the middle height, and stands like an army officer at ease. The fact that he is meeting me here rather than in the parlour is I suppose meant to be a little insulting and (especially considering the state of the room) somewhat intimidating, as is his use of the light to keep me from seeing his face. The insult means little, because I expected it – and after having been around Simon for so long I find the attempt to intimidate me almost laughable.

Crombie is a bit less than three yards away from me. I consider approaching him or finding an angle from which I can see him more clearly, but I decide against it. If I don't tread carefully, I will be finished before I've begun.

I make a wary curtsey and feel relief when Crombie obliges me with a slight nod, producing a brief gleam of light from the lenses of his spectacles. "Good afternoon, Miss Bishop," he says dryly. He sounds much like his son, except that his voice is weathered with age and that large quantity of pipe tobacco, which, in a different incarnation, now saturates the air of this room. "I must admit to being very curious as to why you have called on me." Which means he's curious enough to listen to my explanation, but it had better be a good one.

"Sir," I begin, trying to strike a balance between the pleasant and the serious, "I assume you've heard about the robbery at the Verinders'?" He could hardly have missed it – the "Gargoyle Robbery," as the Penny Arcadian has called it, didn't make yesterday's evening edition but was on the front page of every newspaper in the city this morning.

My eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness. I can make out Crombie's features just enough to see his eyebrows lift with curiosity and surprise. "Of course," he replies with less of an edge in his voice than before. But that edge comes back freshly sharpened with his next words: "So Archard sent you to consult me about this, did he?" And why should I help him?

Now to put Simon's plan into action. "No sir," I answer matter-of-factly. "Quite the contrary. He was very much against it."

Crombie lifts a hand to adjust his spectacles, which flash with captured light. "Hmph. No wonder you didn't inform me beforehand of your visit." The hand leaves his glasses and rejoins its counterpart behind his back. "He didn't think it worth a try, I suppose." He sounds disappointed. I think perhaps he would have advised Simon had my partner requested it himself, but only to put him in an awkward position.

"I don't know what he thought. He rarely explains his reasons to me," I say with unfeigned irritation.

My remark seems to interest Crombie further, as I hoped it would. "So to make a long story short, you came here against your employer's wishes. That's quite a chance you're taking."

I bite back the urge to correct him with partner. This would not be a good time. "A calculated risk, sir. I think you're the best person to ask for advice on this matter, but Simon believes a certain researcher at the university could – "

"Doctor Slidell!" Crombie speaks the name like a curse as he throws his hands in the air. "I've been studying gargoyles since that pompous fool was in nappies and he thinks that just because he has a degree in biology and I don't…." He stops in the middle of his tirade. Suddenly he is adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat. "My apologies, Miss Bishop."

"That's…quite all right," I assure him, hiding my feeling of triumph behind a mask of fading shock. "Please forgive me – I didn't mean to upset you."

Crombie shakes his head and waves dismissively as he ambles away from the window and approaches me, closing the gap between us to a friendlier distance of a yard or so. No longer backlit, he looks smaller and almost harmless. In most respects he resembles his son but for being somewhat shorter, thinner and more lined with age. His short hair, beard and neatly clipped moustache are grey-streaked white. A pair of owlish tortoiseshell-framed spectacles is perched on his aquiline nose and a tiny silver gargoyle pin twinkles in the centre of his tie. He does not look like he could be responsible for the chaos in this study or the indignant fit of temper I witnessed a moment ago. Only the tobacco stain on his left thumb, which I see when he adjusts his spectacles yet again, connects him to any aspect of this room.

"In any case," I begin, as if nothing had happened, "since he would not go to you, I am here myself. As you said, you have studied gargoyles more thoroughly and for longer than anyone else. When the papers, the city authorities or most of the university students have questions about gargoyles, they come to you." Careful, Emma – don't overdo it.

I think I administered just the right dose of flattery. Crombie draws himself up proudly, making me think of a sparrow imitating an eagle. "Well, Miss Bishop, you at least are sensible enough to have come to the right person. Because I consider myself an honourable man and a good citizen, and because you have asked politely – and because that buffoon Slidell doesn't know enough to tell you anything useful – you shall have all my knowledge as a grottecologist at your disposal."

That wasn't exactly easy, but Simon was right when he said it would be easier than I thought (though I'll die before I ever tell him that). "Thank you, Mr. Crombie." The smile I give him is one that I've always found quite effective for convincing someone to trust me – but whenever I do it deliberately, as now, I feel like a bit of a cheat; often when I do it spontaneously I incur mockery or mild scolding from Simon.

"Now then," he says, going to a bookshelf over to my left and proceeding to pull down some volumes from it, "what sort of information are you looking for?" He jerks as if he has just remembered something. "Oh! Excuse me…" he places his stack of books on a nearby desk and takes a half-step away before he notices that the books are falling over. Crombie adjusts them, makes sure they are stable, and darts to the other side of the study, where a small couch and a few chairs – piled high with books, papers and other paraphernalia – are arranged in a semicircle around the fireplace. He takes an unidentifiable and apparently half-finished mechanical device from a ladder-back chair and places it on the floor before pulling the chair across the room, closer to the desk. I cannot decide whether the abrupt change in his demeanour towards me is more bizarre or amusing.

"Here, here, please sit down." Crombie waves me to the chair and goes back to browsing the shelves and piles of books. I take the offered seat, watching as he gathers his materials. While his books are not arranged according to any system I can make out – much like Simon's library pre-Holey Thursday – he finds whatever he needs without searching for it.

I realize that I should start asking my questions about now. "We know that what the gargoyles did at the Verinders' is quite abnormal for them – not to mention alarming. I'm not sure if one could train them to do something like that…"

"To break into a house and steal things, perhaps," Crombie interjects, "but not that way. Trained gargoyles would not have caused such destruction in the process." He puts down the last of the relevant books on the desktop and pauses to remove his spectacles and wipe them with a handkerchief. "There's a rather suspicious combination of deliberate action and chaos….very sorry, Miss Bishop, I shouldn't have interrupted you." Crombie replaces his glasses.

"That's what Simon and I thought," I agree, thinking that it's safe to mention my partner in this context. "Our theory is that someone is controlling them directly through means we have yet to determine."

"Ah!" Crombie deftly pulls a slim black leather-bound book from the middle of the pile on the desk without toppling the volumes resting on it. "You're in luck. I recently discovered something that might be of use to you. In fact, I plan to publish a monograph on the subject." He opens the book close to its end and starts flipping pages. From what I can see, the volume is a ruled notebook, filled with what I assume to be Crombie's handwriting.

"There it is," he says, finding the correct page and tapping it with his finger. He clears his throat in preparation for a lecture. I've discovered by now that he likes to hear himself talk, but at least he's apologetic about it. "You see, these days gargoyles only inhabit two places on Arcadia – Partington and the island of Irandoa. Before Mayor Jenkens brought the first mating pair here forty years ago, they lived only on that island, or so popular theory has it.

"However, I have reason to believe that this may not be the case. I have had the good fortune to find a record in the Bibliotheque Royale in Lutèce that proves that there were gargoyles there until about two centuries ago."

"Two centuries? But I thought they had only been around for – " I catch myself. "Never mind." I had been under the impression that Miranda had made the things, and she had arrived on Irandoa only a little less than a century ago. Perhaps some variety of gargoyles existed on the island before she came, and she used them as a template for her own creations.

"In a way, you're right – they weren't called gargoyles at the time. Instead they were called devilkin, or the equivalent in other languages. From the sketches on record, it seems they only had pecks, not the varieties we have in Partington today." Well, that supports my theory.

"I see. How did they end up in Lutèce, though? And why aren't they there any longer?"

Crombie taps his open book again. "You've heard of Philipe St. Martin, I presume?"

"The man who first circumnavigated the globe, yes."

"On one of his lesser-known voyages he found the isle of Irandoa and brought some gargoyles back with him – as I said, only pecks. Couldn't fit any of the larger ones, I suppose. He gave them to Queen Diane, who kept them in a menagerie. They escaped and within a few years…." Crombie concludes with a shrug, leaving the rest unsaid. Every native Partingtonian knows that gargoyles breed like rabbits and spread like rats.

"As for why they disappeared," Crombie continues, "that is related to your question about how they can be controlled, although I'm not sure how much of it to believe myself." He fiddles with his spectacles for the umpteenth time. "A century later, during the reign of King Martin IX, the royal alchemist set in motion a plot to usurp control of the kingdom. Part of this plot – the interesting part – involved using the gargoyles to spread panic. The alchemist made some sort of amulet from carved gargoyle bones, which he used to control the creatures."

Though my rational mind can only treat this bit of information with scepticism, my detective's instinct latches onto it as a significant clue. I am tortured by the sense that I'm missing something important. "So what happened to the gargoyles?"

Crombie closes his book. "The alchemist managed to cause a lot of trouble with them. Eventually he was exposed as a traitor and hung. King Martin put a bounty on the gargoyles, and they were decimated within a few months." He shakes his head sadly. "The poor creatures. It wasn't really their fault."
"What of the amulet?"

"It was lost," Crombie says. "To this day nobody knows where it is. I know that's not much, but it's all I know about controlling gargoyles." With deliberate care he puts the book down on the desk and smiles proudly at me. "Do you have any other questions for me?" he asks, eager as a schoolboy.

That nagging feeling grows more intense, becoming a maddening, unscratchable itch in the back of my mind. I stand up from my chair. "No, sir. Thank you very much for your help. If you can think of anything else, please contact me," I say, withdrawing a business card from my handbag and passing it to him with a polite curtsey.

I gently turn down Fenton Crombie's request that I stay for an early tea and, with considerable relief, let him escort me out of the musty study and to the front door, where I take my leave of him before hailing a cab. That went better than I thought it would, but the nervousness I came in with is not at all dissipated. Quite the contrary: experience has taught me that things only run this smoothly when they are headed for disaster.

Simon is standing by the window gazing out on the city when I enter the study to give my report. He looks over his shoulder at me as I come in. "Well?"

"He fell for it," I answer, smiling in quiet triumph.

"As I knew he would," Simon says, turning to face me. "What did he tell you?"

Feeling rather miffed at his utter lack of gratitude, I purse my lips, fold my arms and shoot him a piercing look, which me meets with a level, unaffected gaze. A few seconds pass before I break the silence. "What about 'good work, Emma,' or perhaps 'thank you, Emma'?"

"What about it?"

I'll give you "what about it." "Your plan, brilliant though it may have been, depended upon my being able to carry it out. Would it hurt for you to admit that much?"

Simon scowls with irritation. "It's what I pay you for."

In light of recent events, this otherwise annoying remark becomes a stinging insult. I'm sure he didn't mean it that way, but that hardly mollifies me: he should know better than to say something like that to his partner. I want to tell him that, or say that his words were uncalled for; somehow the closest I can get is, "Not enough to forgo the occasional expression of gratitude." And so I make myself complicit in his crime of pretending that nothing has changed.

Deciding that this conversational track can only end in grief, I return to business and recount my conversation with Fenton Crombie word for word; Simon would be afraid of missing details if I were to simply paraphrase or summarize. Simon paces the floor while I speak, his brow furrowed in thought. Much of the time he does his geste de pense. He almost never looks at me, but I know I have his full attention.

When I mention the amulet, he freezes in place and looks wide-eyed at me with something close to alarm. I fall silent and question him with a worried look, but he waves for me to continue. Evidently he's come to a conclusion, and is following his own advice in making sure he hasn't jumped to it. I hasten to finish repeating Crombie's advice.

Simon is already standing beside the table on which we keep the telephone (or, at least, the one in this room). As soon as I have told him everything he seizes it as if he fears it might scurry away and puts the receiver to his ear. "Hail us a cab," he tells me. "I'll be along in a minute. Hurry!"

I have been given these urgent instructions often enough in the past to understand – if only vaguely – what they entail, and I know better than to ask questions. With all possible speed I rush out of the study and down the stairs. Fortunately I went directly to Simon after returning from Fenton Crombie's, so I don't need to change clothes or even fetch a hat. I fly down the vestibule stairs and out the front door, skid to a stop at the curb and look up and down the street for a cab.

There's a hansom just turning the corner; I flag it down frantically and barely let it stop before yanking open the door and clambering into the back seat. "I'm waiting for someone. He'll be here shortly," I say breathlessly, my words clipped and tumbling over each other in a sense of haste without direction. "Be ready to move as soon as he gets in. I don't know where yet." The bewildered driver, knowing an emergency when he sees it and perhaps curious as to what will happen next, nods and watches the entrance, as I do – but he's watching with his hands white-knuckled on the reins, and I with my lower lip between my teeth, listening to my heart pounding in my ears.

After an eternal three minutes Simon bursts out of the front door, tugging his coat into place. He bounds down the front steps and across to the hansom cab. Somehow he always manages to jump into the seat and close the door behind him in the same smooth motion, especially when he's in a hurry. The cabdriver has the horse moving as soon as my partner's feet leave the pavement.

"The waterfront, pier nineteen, or as close as you can get," Simon instructs him in much the same voice I did a few minutes ago. I brace myself, because I know what's coming next. "A guinea if you get us there in under fifteen minutes!"

"Yessir!" the driver answers eagerly as he whips his horse up to well beyond a safe and sane speed. Only a very few people in Partington can get away with something like this, and only Simon seems to do it without any reservation or apology whatsoever.

Times such as these bring to mind a particularly satisfying and vivid recollection: shortly after Simon and I started working together, a reporter asked me in a rather condescending way whether I found such madcap races through the city to be frightening. I answered quite truthfully that, on the contrary, I considered them one of the most enjoyable aspects of my work. Instead of shutting my eyes and cowering in terror as I know a proper lady should, I watch out the window and savour every bump, near miss and hairpin turn.

After all, this will probably be the last such ride I ever take.

According to the Crossgen Illustrated Guide, the Mayor Jenkens of Partington imported the first breeding pair of gargoyles from their native habitat in the Balkans. In the series, however, they originated on the isle of Irandoa, and Partington is the only other place where they can be found. I'm with the series on this, not the Guide. The "forty years" bit is my own invention, since the time at which the gargoyles were introduced to Partington is not mentioned in the series or the Guide.